GEORGINA: I’m meeting his sister. After 18 hours in cabin pressure. Have some pity.
GEORGINA: I’ll be home tomorrow, assuming I survive.
BEA: Fine. I guess that’s a worthy excuse. Good luck with the sister.
GEORGINA: Thanks. If I die, tell your future children I loved you.
Bea shook her head, smiling to herself as she set her phone down on the marble edge of the ensuite. The taste of mint lingered. She padded back into the bedroom.
Gage was half sitting against the headboard, checking messages on his phone. The sheet sat low on his hips, the hard lines of his torso cast in shadow.
She climbed in next to him. Tucked her legs under the duvet. “Georgina’s staying at Hunter’s tonight.”
He glanced at her, arching a brow.
“I could go back,” she said lightly. Then, after a beat—“Or I could stay.”
He set his phone on the side table. “What do you want to do?”
“Stay.”
He studied her for a long moment, weighing more than her words. “Seven nights.”
“You’ve been counting?” she asked, pulling at the blanket.
“I track what matters.”
Whatever question she meant to ask never made it out. He shifted, and in the next second, she was underneath him.
“You asked to stay.” His blue eyes were oddly resolute. “Don’t take it back.”
“I won’t.”
His mouth met hers. The kind of kiss that told her this wasn’t just one more night. It was the beginning of something he had no intention of undoing.
That morning, the sun climbed high before either of them left the bed.
The scent hit first, savory, pungent, and spicy. The kind of smell that stuck to hair and clothes; the kind that told you something good was happening in the kitchen.
“She really did it,” Georgina Ashcroft said, half in awe, half in disbelief. She stood in the middle of the apartment with her sunglasses still on top of her blond head and a full suitcase untouched by the door. “You cooked. Like, with fire.”
“With actual ingredients,” Bea said proudly, pulling a hot pan off the stovetop. The apartment smelled like Seoul streetfood on a summer night—sizzling beef, caramelized onions, and fermented chili paste bubbling low in the pan.
“Smells like heaven,” Lillian Clarke said dreamily, slipping out of her shoes by the door. She was tanned from her time back home in Melbourne, freckles more pronounced, long braid a bit frizzier from the humidity. “And…home, I think. Someone’s home.”
Georgina peeled off her oversized linen blazer. “Has anything ever been cooked on the stove since Gage moved out?”
“I’ve made rice balls,” Bea mused. “But it depends if you count frying pre-marinated bulgogi strips ascooking.”
“You’ve made scrambled eggs for me before,” Lillian offered. “From scratch.”
Bea laughed.
There was a knock, and Georgina hurried to open the door. Hunter entered, broad-shouldered, eternally tan. He gave Georgie a kiss on the lips, like he hadn’t literally just gone downstairs to grab something for her from his car.
“You’re our chef tonight?” Hunter’s smile was warm.
“Don’t be impressed until you taste it,” Bea replied humbly.
